Welcome to another Poetry Friday Adventure!
Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our poetry challenge for the month of JUNE.
Here’s the scoop: we’re greeting the opening act of summer with a triptych. Tabatha Yeatts-Lonske introduced West Coast poet and essayist Louise Ireland’s three-act August Triptych to me a long while back, and commented that she would use it as a mentor text someday. While I don’t know if Tab ever got there (probably yes), our someday is our today! Louise Ireland wrote from the trailing edge of summer’s wane, while we’ll compose our own triptych on the theme of diving into to the waxing of the season – in whatever way moves us. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it June 26th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. See you then.
From Process…
Welcome to the potluck! For me, potlucks are ever and always church-y, bringing to mind the people and things which helped shape my primary foundations for ethics and behavior, for good or for ill. One of those church people was a four-foot-nothing Scottish woman of indeterminate age with a bubble of brown curls, spiky faux lashes, pearled pink nail polish, a tiny lisp, and a huge heart. Sandy McMahon helped out in the 4-5 year old children’s ministry department, keeping us mannerly and handing us our papers after class was over. She also kept her hard-sided purse full of treats. And, every week at potluck, she brought a molded salad – always red Jello, sometimes with fruit cocktail, sometimes with pineapple rings and sophisticated piped mayonnaise. It was her go-to offering.
Alas, I am unfond of the squidge of Jello. I loathe the cloy of mayonnaise. Then there was the ginger ale and the fruit cocktail with the (peeled!!!!) grapes in… And let’s not even go into the Cool Whip. 🤢 On good days there were mandarins. On okay days, my serving did not include one grape. On the very worst days, there were strawberries, cooked to slimy limpness by hot Jello. That texture sets my teeth on edge even in memory. But I ate everything my mother put on my plate – including that jello salad – Every. Single. Week. For one, food was to be eaten, not looked at, played with, poked at, pouted over: eaten; thus sayeth the Mother. For another thing, after potluck, Miss Sandy gave out teensy boxes of raisins to all the five-and-under crowd in the clean plate club (a dried fruit digestif, I guess). So we feral little heathens ate up, then swarmed her, hands out, all demand and barely leashed impatience. We slammed those raisins down, then walked around blowing into the boxes, making high-pitched whistling squeaks and annoying everyone. Good times.
…To Poetry
But, come to the table! Your fellow Peeps are gathering, and the Poetry Sisters are opening bags and coolers – Laura dropped by to bless the table with a blossoms before whisking away. Cousin Mary Lee – today’s Poetry Friday hostess (Thank you, Mary Lee!) – brought a gorgeous bowl of beans. As always, Sara’s chips go with everything. Tricia’s brought her Mom’s dish to share, and Liz brought hers on a vintage plate. Cathy Stenquist brought fruit salad…plus, and Michelle K. brought a golden shovel-full of goodies, and Denise brought a basket. For the whole Poetry Friday roundup, don’t forget to circle back to Mary Lee’s post, where there’s even sides and postprandial activities! More Peeps bearing delish dishes and good gossip may show up throughout the weekend, so don’t forget to check back to see more potluck poetry links here.
Obviously, Miss Sandy deserves a poem. Which I will write. Someday. Until then, there is potluck food poetry. One rhymed randomly, the other ridiculous-but-ruly, because Padraig asked for pantoums this week, and that form was on my mind. In the random poem I took great pleasure in seeing in my mind’s eye the picture of me, age two, at church – patent leather shoes and red cabled tights, sitting primly, legs crossed… and then imagining the sticky, shouting, feral wee beastie I know lived insides – within every child (and every human, if we’re being fair). I amused myself with both poems – sometimes it’s just plain fun to write about something tiny pet peeves that are less than very minor blips in terms of the universe. Jello. Potluck. Behaving. All things which can easily be endured.
Jello Song
~ A Very Silly Poem Draft ~
The bane of all my Sabbath days:
Red jello, ginger ale,
Decorative mayonnaise…
Gelatin with fruit cocktail.
Red jello, ginger ale –
(I’m wincing as your eyebrows raise…)
Gelatin with fruit cocktail.
That jiggle held my soul’s malaise.
I’m wincing – Yes, your eyebrows raise –
I’ll spit it out! (Shush, tattletale.)
That jiggle – ugh. My soul’s malaise.
So hated – let me count the ways.
(I’ve spit it out now. Tattletale!!!)
With narrowed eyes my plate appraise.
That mayo – ugh. Beyond the pale –
No more for me. Thanks anyways.
And of course, the raisins have to have their moment:
A Smol Saint Speaks
That mini box of raisins there
I’ve waited for so patiently.
I learned my verse, I tried to share,
My hands stayed folded on my knee.
I did not pinch, or kick, or shout
(like Conrad did). I got along.
My face stayed sweet, I didn’t pout.
Miss Sandy sings the goodbye song…
And I CRAM raisins in my gob!
It’s rude and gross without a doubt.
Goodness is hard – a full-time job,
I’ve earned my treat! And church is OUT.
As I grew, Miss Sandy stayed around, though busy with a new crop of Very Smols to look after, so in the natural manner of things, I forgot her a bit. Though somehow, in a church with 600 to 800 members on the books and two services, she was still paying attention to her former charges. When I turned twelve, she presented me with a beautifully tissue-wrapped satiny peignoir from the 60’s – probably one of hers. It was the swankiest, fanciest sugary pink nylon and lace confection of a babydoll nightgown to ever be beloved by a young girl’s heart, and I simply SWOOPED around the house in that thing like I was on Dynasty. I LOVED that thing, and I cannot imagine what prompted her to gift me with that – except somehow she saw beyond the awkward sullenness and general geekery to someone whose secret longing was for pretty things. Looking back as an adult, this is even more amazing – what a brave thing to do, for a snotty tween who might have been awful to her. What a way to celebrate a growing-up moment with someone who wasn’t sure she/it was anything to celebrate (jury’s still out). May we all have a Miss Sandy in our lives when we need one – a person for whom we will eat dubiously textured things because she sees us and loves us. And, if we don’t HAVE a Miss Sandy, the Universe extends an invitation: Be One. Be the Miss Sandy you want to see in the world.
Until next time friends, remember you are so, so loved.
Happy Weekend🌷
Tanita, this is so fun! Everything about your writing is a gift. Thank you! “sophisticated piped mayonnaise” makes my stomach turn a bit. I’m not a mayonnaise person, so imagining it on jello is so gross. Your poems are both fun. I love the memories captured within them both. And that last story of Miss Sandy’s gift to you is priceless. “Goodness IS hard.”
Tanita, I finally had time to reread your fabulous blog post and comment. Back in the day, jello was popular but I was not a lover of the fruit cocktail insertion. I am a lover of your prose and poetry.
@Carol V.: Oh, thank you.
I love this entire post! Although I almost bolted at the words “molded” and “Jello” and “fruit cocktail” and “piped mayonnaise.” (PIPED?!?) I didn’t grow up in any kind of church community, but my mother did make Jello regularly, and sometimes had the audacity to put fruit cocktail in it. (Ugh, Mom! As if it weren’t already enough of a con to call Jello “dessert.”)
Your storytelling always reels me in and I can picture every moment so well. You make these poems look so effortless too. You’re another potato chip poet, just like the one Sara described/is.
Such a delicious post, in every way! (Except for the actual Jello concoction, lol.) 😀
@Karen Edmisten: I need to get a time machine – I wish I had pics of some of those childhood era church Jell-O creations. I remember someone else did a “special occasion” green one in a bundt mold (with nuts. Nuts!!!) but I left that untasted.
I’m tickled at the idea of being a potato chip poet! Thank you – that’s truly high praise.
What fun to read all about Miss Sandy and those churchy jello salad memories! The thrill of devouring those boxes of raisins and receiving that peignoir! Pretty sassy :). Love how you went from mayonnaise to malaise to appraise to count the ways . . . is it even possible to pipe mayonnaise?
@Jama-j: I have only seen piped decorative mayo A.) on deviled eggs or B.) on the edges of those Jell-O salads that contained it. With radish flowers! I think Kewpie mayonnaise is imminently pipe-able!
Wow Tanita, this is a post with the mostest—and that jiggle jello takes the cake! I loved hearing the before story with Mss Sandy and the years later too—Both poems are terrific, “Goodness is hard — a full time job, but it brought these poems to all, thanks!☺️
I’m so glad you dropped by the potluck!
“So we feral little heathens ate up, then swarmed her, hands out, all demand and barely leashed impatience.” I SO LOVE your writing, Tanita – every morsel. And Miss Sandy – what a treasure! Thanks for sharing all, including the fun jiggly Jello poem and, of course, the raisins. :0)
@Robyn Hood Black: Thank you! Every time I meet a feral little one who uses my body as a jungle gym or tries taking food from my plate (my nephews) I remember: once I was feral too…
Oh, this post makes me laugh. That jello salad showed up EVERYWHERE! I remember the summer my mom learned how to mix jello powder into cottage cheese with pineapple. Ewwwww!. Well done, Tanita. I promise to give the triptych a look over. Thanks for the invitation.
@Linda Mitchell: Thanks for your kind words!
It’s still funny to me that you don’t even have to bloom the gelatin and make the Jell-O to create some of these. Oh, no! Just mix with ginger ale and cottage cheese and off you go! Granted, it’s a good way to get calories into a picky kid but I doubt I was ever in any danger of going without…
BTW, my starting word for Wordle is ASPIC. Give me a savory jello salad and I will gladly eat it. But marshmallows and mushy fruit, never!
@MissRumphius: Aspic!! Oh, wow. I eventually learned to like V-8 and vichyssoise, and borchst — so I guess I could eventually get along with savory Jell-O flavors, but it’s just texture atop cold cooked veg… Although, it just as bad with so-called Ambrosia Salad (which has the honor of being the only salad I cannot even attempt anymore because once I threw up, and… nope, never again)… The whipped topping, cottage cheese and marshmallow triumvirate is definitely an unholy trinity to my digestion, but most people adore it. Don’t know what’s wrong with me!
There is so much to love about this post. Both poems made me laugh, particularly the second. That last stanza is killer! I love the pantoum about a much maligned dessert. Or is it a salad? I believe our moms were cut from the same cloth, as I also dutifully ate everything on my plate, even the liver and onions. Thank you for sharing Miss Sandy with us and for encouraging us to go out do good works. We need it. Such a lovely post my friend.
And thank you for your comments about my poem in Slack. I don’t know why Google is so mean to you!
Oh my goodness, this is so rich with details and memories and associations!
First, re. next month’s waxing into summer — JUST THIS MORNING I was reading from Ross Gay’s Book of (More) Delights, and he has a little essay about he didn’t know about waning! He understood that the moon waxed its way toward full and then — he didn’t know, he didn’t think about it, really — the light just went out and, eventually started its waxing over! I love those odd amazing gaps in our knowledge of the world — like how does that happen???
ANYWAY. Onto Miss Sandy and the jello and the mayonnaise (SO GROSS) and the fruit cocktail! My mom used to suspend fruit cocktail in jello — what in the ever loving ’70s???? I love both these poems but your rhyming in that first one — you are SUCH a master, my friend.
@Liz Garton Scanlon: Thank you! I love Ross Gay for his ability to bring us all with him into his delight in the world and his learning it. His is the poetry of gladness.
It really was the ever loving 70’s, and the first age of astronomy tricks. I mean , fruit suspension is pretty cool…
Tanita! This whole beautiful post! It’s a memoir and a prose poem and a joy. Piped mayo! (I like mayo, but it should be MIXED IN) and my goodness, who has time to peel grapes?? I truly think you should write a book about your church childhood, mixed in with these kind of poems. The material is just too wonderful. Btw, I had a neighbor that I babysat for who gave me a nice set of pjs before I went to college, and I was just google-eyed over them. I had never had anything that swanky, as you said. It’s like they’re saying to you: you’re grown-up now. Enjoy it! Thank you for this, and one more thing. The comic timing in this last line—perfection! “We slammed those raisins down, then walked around blowing into the boxes, making high-pitched whistling squeaks and annoying everyone. Good times.” LOL and utter summertime happiness.
I was giggling along with your send-up of jello salad (luckily, ours never had decorative mayonnaise — UGH), but those peeled grapes in the fruit cocktail. GROSS! And the antics of the clean-plate crew — priceless! But then you introduced me to Miss Sandy on your twelfth birthday and tears replaced my giggles.
Yes, let’s all “Be the Miss Sandy you want to see in the world.” I understand the assignment and I’m off to find some “Smol Saints” and other assorted folks who might need a virtual “tissue-wrapped satiny peignoir.”